the morning river

Heading east in the early morning, winding along the Deerfield, everything is golden. The trees are encased in ice, crystalline, drops of diamonds arch elegantly over the water. There is a stretch of the river that is true flood plain, the river diverges and there is an island of marsh grass, it too coated and sparkling. And the river holds on to heat, the freezing morning air condenses the moisture and the whole, wide river is steaming. Each rising molecule catches sun.

And what comes to mind is easy brilliance. Simple ebullience. Something better than anything that took just about nothing. Like all colors, it is the changing conditions of atmosphere and light that make the content, the substance seem unbelievably altered. The temperature rises as the sun’s angle widens, and everything is altered again … greater contrast, less sparkle, more depth. A different picture.

These ticking mechanisms, day length and earth tilt and the trees each with a clock in its heartwood are a chorus. A kaleidoscope that stays still but flashes change moment to moment. If I am moving too it is a clacking cliché, but when I stand still after a climb in winter early in the day or towards the end of twilight I am struck. Especially if I can feel my heartbeat in my feet or stomach or wrists, that other precarious mechanism, I understand that absolutely nothing is ever the same. It is different two inches to the right, or left, and I feel glee and desperation when I think of all the scenes that go unseen, un-gulped, un-awed. There are perfect frames of composition and light that are struck like a gong, boldly, which are left to fade and darken as quickly as they appeared. Like it was no-thing.

And that itself is a pretty enough sound-picture, I think. Imagine hillsides and valleys and plains all ringing out, as the light hits them just exactly so. A chiming, shining world. Especially in winter.